


Sollux: Do the Dew

by cryogenia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Eggs, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, Improvised Sex Toys, Masturbation, Other, Oviposition, Post-Canon, he just has to improvise the eggs, if you've seen a certain fanart you probably know where this is heading, miracles everywhere, nobody question it, well sollux has an egg kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7928413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You pick up the Code Red can all casual and run your thumb along its smooth bottom curve, as if you haven’t already made up your mind.</p><p>You’re going to do the Dew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sollux: Do the Dew

**Author's Note:**

> Originally inspired by [xagave's most excellent fanart](http://xxxagave.tumblr.com/post/146369006798/absolutely-disgusting), which personally cleared my skin, healed my wounds, and added five years to my life. Also by the fact that actual ovipos eggs exist, and fun fact: they are 4.13cm wide exactly.

Of all the annoyances you missed about being alive, you never expected boredom would be one of them.

Your name is Sollux Captor, and you are enjoying your newfound life by squandering it like the foul bachelor frog you are. You are rocking out with your socks out on your concupiscent platform because it is too fucking hot for pants, grazing on orange cheese-flavored nutrition triangles because it’s too much work to eat. And you honestly, truly, don’t know what you want to do.

You consider: rest. The sun is out so you probably should be sleeping, except you have never slept before midday in your life (or afterlife). You are a disaster at sleeping. Plus everyone else is trying to keep dumbass offset schedules because the humans are diurnal creatures, and did you know this star’s not so radioactive?  You can go out in the light, you guys!  (It’s not like you were destined for suffering or anything.) Everyone’s all over the place and nobody has decided who’s awake when, and KK keeps yelling about standardizing sleep schedules so of course nobody listens. Sleep is just too exhausting to contemplate. You decide to stay awake.

You could get on the internet?  Oh, right. You destroyed the internet, with not one but two bullshit apocalypses. Not saving the internet is high on your list of personal shortcomings, though in your defense first you were dead and then you were half-dead and then you were full-alive but blind out in the dream bubbles. You could check for gifs on the new 2^2 Chan, but spawning a new imageboard doesn’t mean you can spawn new users. There’s a 100% chance the only content is ED’s bulge pics.

You get out your palmhusk and ssh into the main hive instead. Might as well see what you can mine from the ruins. You may have been too much of a piece of shit to back up much beyond your own driveframes but RX had that shit on lock. This middling waterlogged planet used to be her home, give or take some Time shenanigans, and she had years to hack at HIC. She used her weird Void powers to steal back her old equipment, including a criminally large dump of web data. (Maybe windy boy had a hand in that too, though you hope not. Your Doom sense gets a nasty tingle when you poke at stuff he’s changed.)

Anyway. Point is, you do have chunks of _somebody’s_ internet. Once you get it indexed, it’ll be a lot more usable. RX’s lifeless silicon tech annoys you, but you have cobbled together a distributed processing system that works. She’s got her army of servers woven throughout Cantown and you’ve got your Bee-o-wulf cluster thrumming on the same goal. Each of your hives and human computers is sorting through a different chunk of backed-up webpages, reading every word and tallying how often each term appears. The results are sent back to your joint server, a massive central monstrosity of dark amber mind honey and silicon-hybrid bees. Your search algorithm isn’t as sophisticated as Troogle (yet) but at least the system yields better and better results the more info you feed it.

Like now. Instead of your palmhusk pulling the same five tired results from QuadrantTube, you’re getting a whole new set of suggestions for ‘amateur flushed first time bucket shot’. It’s still not quite the selection you were expecting -- one of the problems with text-based rankings, porn sites used to pad their meta-tags with all kinds of extra shit -- but it’s closer than the last time you looked. There’s only one human result this time, and at least it’s hilariously freaky. You’re pretty sure what they’re doing with that peanut butter is not ‘amateur’.

Oh well. You lay back and flick through some of the other links, dropping your other hand to your nook. You might as well get off. You suppose if you wanted concupiscent action you could pester FF or your girlfriendmesis, but they’re at the beach with NP and CL. You would be there too, except for the unfortunate OUTSIDE and NATURE. So, no beach. You tease two fingers along your slit and lean back against the pillows, wallowing deeper into your stash of Code Red cans and sin.

The first couple pages are okay, but nothing to get your bulges out about. Typical lowblood flush-smut, a little freakier set design but otherwise indistinguishable from the porn in your timeline’s Alternia. You absently finger your nook, tickling the folds just inside your slit. Your outermost layers aren’t as sensitive as what lies deeper, but they’re petal-y soft, fun to pet. You lose another couple minutes exploring yourself while you glance through the node health logs. RX’s cluster has added a few more machines since the last time you checked, which turns you on more than the porn, honestly. Classic pitch maneuver, beefing up your stats while the rival isn’t looking. You spend a few minutes poking at her server’s ports (ehehehe _ports_ ) but decide that’s too much effort too. Also it will hamper your ability to watch porn.

Oh right, porn. That was that thing that was theoretically happening. You pull the index back to the foreground and tap in a couple other search terms to see what pings. You also reach for a handful of nutrition triangles without gogdamn thinking and get orange powder all over your nook-dampened hand. This is a clear sign typing one-handed is bullshit.

You draw up a crackle of psionic energy and levitate your palmhusk in front of your face. Now you can eat Doritos _and_ touch yourself at the same time. Who’s the best at multi-tasking?  It’s you. You lick your sticky fingers clean and use voice commands to search for ‘dripping amateur nook’ because, why not?  You are also the best at being a gross piece of garbage.

The results that come up are fairly standard this time too -- squirters, hemoanonymous bucket shots, that sort of thing. Whatever. There’s a couple that catch your ganderbulbs though, like this rust-blood and her teal matesprit. The thumbnail has them hand in hand, staring with glee at a concupiscent aid the length of the teal-blood’s forearm.

You click on it. It’s a little weird that the rustie’s horns remind you of AA’s but the setup isn’t advertised as ‘rails with pails’. Instead, there’s links to the ‘ulti/\/\ate flush fuck’ surrounded by tons of hearts, and the cutest, sexiest gif of the teal on his knees, giggling happily as a thick sheen of material drips down his thighs. Your own nook clenches beneath your fingers and you press into yourself in anticipation.

That’s the best thing about the apocalypse. No pay walls.

You queue up all the associated video files and sprawl out further, floating your palmhusk to the optimal distance from your face. (You know from unfortunate, painful experience what happens if you lose your concentration and drop your psionics in the heat of the moment.) A couple extra Code Red cans roll toward the headboard, because you are an oinkbeast. The vid opens with a classic concupiscent title: _In which a young rust-blood confesses her interest in vestigial reproductive practices, leading to enthusiastic flushed overtures and the use of oversize concupiscent aids, culminating in the insertion of multiple slime eggs into her matesprit’s_ _dripping amateur nook_ _. Banned in the Nadine system._

Aw yiss, you are an oinkbeast and you are going to _wallow_.

You drag a palm over your own slightly soft belly, mostly ignoring the predictable badly acted opening feelings jam. Ovipos is one of those kinks that’s a sometimes-food; you’d always meant to explore more in depth but, the voices. (And dying, and being half-dead, etc, etc. Shenanigans.) You’re still not sure if you’re all that into the egg scene or if it’s interesting because it’s weird. You and DK trade freaky shit back and forth for the hell of it; you don’t always have to get off to enjoy novel porn. Sometimes it’s more fun just to find something bizarre.

The rustie on the screen is coming to the end of some monologue or other. About gogdamn time. Your bulges are starting to peek out but they’re not really into perving on this borderline-pale scene. You press at the top of your bone-bulge slightly, compressing the length that is still inside. It makes your toes curl into the sheets as Our Rust-Blood Heroine picks out something from her sylladex.

Holy. shit.

The concupiscent aid really is as long as the rust-blood’s forearm, maybe even the much taller teal’s. There’s nothing vestigial about this ovi. Its tip is hollow and gaping open, its body is articulated with ridges like a seadweller. When the rustie’s bulge wraps around the soft toy it squelches in the most obscene way.

Shit. _2hiit._

Your bulges are definitely making an appearance now, unfurling eagerly into your feelstubs. You twist the pair of them straight away from your body, mimicking the position of a functional ovipositor. Your mutant hemis can get erect sometimes, but nothing like that toy. It holds its shape as the rust-blood trails it over her partner’s thick ass, teasing it against his nook from behind. What would it even be like to take something that stiff? The rustie pushes it into her partner’s slit and he sings in a register you didn’t even know purrboxes could make. You hum right along with him as the rustie pulls the toy back and inserts an unnaturally lime-colored egg into a convenient hole at the base. She squeezes the device with two hands and the egg visibly ripples all the way down the oviscape shaft. It pops out onto the teal’s trembling thighs, glistening with clear lubricating slime.

Jegus, that is fucked up and hot.

They kiss some more and keep touching each other with the fake ‘scape while you lay back and think of the fucking math. Ehehehe, _fucking_ math. A quick split window search says those eggs are probably 4.13cm in bore. Factoring in the oviscape’s thickness…  The toy’s tip, fully engorged, is about the size of your fist. What do you have that’s the size of a fist?  You know from unfortunate, wrist-wrenching experience that it’s easier to get someone else to shove their knuckles in you than it is to do it yourself. You tap back to the vid and watch with frustrated envy as the rust-blood starts loading two, three, more eggs into the device. What the fuck do you have that’s this thick?

Your awkward squirming clinks a forgotten soda can against your elbow, and it is a fact: you are the absolute, literal worst. You pick up the Code Red all casual and run your thumb along its smooth bottom curve, as if you haven’t already made up your mind.

You’re going to do the Dew.

That thought in and of itself is another personal failing, but you are too turned on to give a shit. Because the bore is right. The top circle of the can is almost exactly the size of your bony fist, smaller even if you consider your thumb. You slide the can beneath your bulges and nudge it experimentally against your slit. Yeah, your nook is longer than this, and wet. Oh hell, are you ever wet.

You eagerly jam the can down and discover: oh yeah. Foreplay is still a thing that exists.

You rewind the vid to a point somewhere before you stopped paying attention, smack in the middle of another makeout scene. The teal-blood is splayed out under his matesprit, shivering each time she touches him with that monstrosity. Fuck yes, you can relate to that. You levitate the Dew out of the way so you can spread your own nook with two fingers, plunge inside with two more. It’s starting to feel like an itch is building up along the line of your nook, a stinging heat like your psionics crackling deep within. It’s like wearing a pair of jeans too tight, like there’s a seam riding just-so on your slit and you can’t dig it out. (You are not wondering how ED stands his stupid pants. You’re not.) You were just made to have something inside you, a bulge or a toy or a giant ovipositor. The rust-blood pins her partner down and you wail with him as she presses the toy inside. Your own bulges twine helplessly against your belly, sending lightning down your spine.

Holy shit, those eggs are going _in_ . You can see one bulging right where the toy is joined and then -- fuck, jegus fuck, the teal’s _face_. You can see the exact moment the first egg draws into his material sack. You try the can again with your psionics, holding your slit wide with both hands. Your palmhusk dips alarmingly as you focus on not ramming the Dew in so far it will never be retrieved. As the metal presses past your first folds, your nook clenches so hard you actually chirp. It feels so much like someone else is doing this for you. FF or RX (or KK or ED, anybody. Anybody.) You push the can another centimeter and your legs. Will not. Stop spreading apart.

Another round of eggs into the oviscape. Another aching push to draw the can inside you. Your nook is throbbing with the stretch and your bulges cannot figure out where the fuck they’re supposed to be. You are so fucking full and the can doesn’t yield at all against your squeezing. The teal-blood on screen is starting to get a visible bulge to his lower abdomen and you pin your bulges against your own slight stomach. It would hurt so much and be so hot and you want to be so filled to the brim that you can’t even stand.

The can isn’t going to do it, though. You shudder through another few centimeters and then - fuck. There’s a curve inside where your nook slants up and in, and the Dew is too rigid to follow it. You chirp desperately but no matter which way you adjust your hips it’s not changing. It’s stuck. You only got it halfway in, and now your whole body is thrumming and you’re trembling all the way to your horns and this is the worst thing that has ever happened. You watch helplessly as the rustie rubs her hands all over her matesprit’s growing belly and claw at the sheets. One of your hands catches your Doritos and sends them flying.

Fuck, it hurts so much. A weird part of you almost likes the hurt, because you’re a mutant freak who apparently enjoys being bulge-blocked and frustrated. You let the can go from your psionics and it stays exactly where it is, barring all access to your seed flap and putting an excruciating amount of pressure on your internal shameglobes. Gravity is a thing that exists too, fucking hell.

...gravity is a thing that exists, and you can still make it your bitch.

You grab your palmhusk out of the air with a shaky hand, not trusting your psionics with the fine motor right now. The teal blood is crawling woozily onto his hands and knees, flaunting his distended belly and slime-drenched thighs to the camera. You can do that too. You shuffle onto your hands and knees, mindful of the throbbing between your thighs, until you too are on nub and prong like a barkbeast. The can doesn’t fall out (your nook is squeezing it too tight for that) but it does shift under its weight. It shifts away from your shameglobes and twists more inside you and fuck yeah, you are into it. You reach between your legs and turn the can back and forth and fuck. Fuckfuck _fuck_.

Somewhere in the distance, the vid is still playing but you can’t pay attention to it anymore. You can scarcely see. Your head hangs down between your shoulders and everything is swimming. Maybe your ganderbulbs are watering. Maybe the room has just gone fuzzy. Their tinny cries mix with your ragged panting and everything goes loose and liquid down your back.

You have never come so hard you’ve shot sparks, but you feel like you’re flying apart anyway.

You come down into a haze of euphoria and disgust, narrowly avoiding a handful of nutrition triangles when you collapse. Your hemis are still twined together, sluggishly twitching. They like to hug like that. You make a half-hearted attempt at finding your palmhusk, but, moving. The porn will keep happening somewhere over there by the pillows. You are too busy collecting all your strutpods.

10/10 would Dew again.

Jegus fuck, you are the worst.


End file.
